Stoned
by KT the Shimmer Skank
Summary: Gordo crosses enemy lines. [one-shot]


**Stoned**

Rated R for strong language and drug content.

Disclaimer: I do not own Lizzie McGuire and I do not make any dough.

Author's Notes: Written very much on a whim after re-reading funky pink high top's fic "Bleeding." One-shot. Not much else to say. Hope you dig it, and hope you leave a review.

o o o o o o o

Fucking how in the _world _did I end up here? I mean, this is a paradox in its truest sense. This is everything I hate and have fought against for so long and at the same time, I love and want this more than anything I ever wanted in the world. More than I wanted that invitation to Danny Kessler's pool party. More than I wanted the kiss Lizzie gave me on that balcony in Rome. More than that Aladdin action-figure (not doll!) that my parents refused to buy me in the first grade. More than the large mushroom and olive pizza I would kill a man to have in my possession this very second.

"Ffffffffffffuck," says Claire, leaning her heavy head of milk chocolate curls against her bathroom wall.

That statement pretty much sums it all up.

Claire has just puked up a rainbow into a toilet with a fuzzy pink lid cover, and I am now sitting across from her on the unbelievably clean white linoleum, admiring what seems to be hundreds and hundreds of bottles of beauty products. So this is how she does it every day. I have now seen the inside of the Wicked Witch's brewery. I now know the secrets of her magic spells and love potions.

"I hate you," she moans, swaying back and forth, running her fingers through her hair again and again. She touches her face. "I feel like I'm dying. God... I... that's the only way to describe it. I feel like I'm dying. I think we need to wake up my mom. Mommy..."

She looks like she's about to cry. She crawls towards the door that I am currently sitting in front of, a pathetic attempt to move, and ends up falling in my lap. Her skin is softer than silk. I gaze around the room, trying to figure out which magic potion makes her skin this. I find that I can't read any of the labels. The words jump off the bottles and crawl down the walls like lines of marching ants.

"Why the fuck did you do this to me? I'll kill you, I swear to God. Do you have any idea who I _am_? If I live through this, I will make your life a living hell."

"Shhh," I say. I stroke her hair. God, this is the most amazing hair I have ever touched. "You're not dying. We're not dying. It's just the drugs, Claire. I promise it will all be over soon. I promise. Just keep breathing."

She has raised two very good questions. Why the fuck _did _I do this to her, and _do _I have any idea who she is?

It started out simple enough, I suppose. A few harsh, witty comments had been thrown back and forth one day in History class. She was the only person I knew in that class and vice versa, so despite our uncontrollable loathing for each other, we found ourselves talking from time to time. Mostly just to argue. I'd known since the third grade that she was a bitch, but it wasn't until I was forced to sit next to her every day that I realized how brilliantly she pulled it off. Banter between Claire and I was like a Chinese ping-pong match; fast, sharp, skilled, merciless.

I was not, of course, one to be out-matched, and I was always sure to have an equally clever and caustic remark to throw back at her. Sometimes I would even spend time thinking of them before class. I somehow failed to realize along the way that I'd started spending so much of my time thinking about Claire Miller. She was so poisonous, so heartless, so furtively intellegent, so endlessly challenging and intriguing... God, how could I have not realized she was sucking me in?

And of course my ego got the best of me. Of course, when a certain insult had brought up the topic of pot, I was such a smug and arrogant bastard that I just had to leak out the truth of my closet habit. I wanted to shock her, impress her, bewilder her. And it worked. But I hadn't expected her to ask me for some. I hadn't expected her to ask me to bring it directly to her house that weekend. I hadn't expected for her to be all alone when I showed up, without her usual cloud of subservient followers.

"You can't tell anyone about this," was the first thing she said to me. It was unreal for me to realize that not only did Claire Miller have secrets, but that I was now a part of them.

She'd stolen two valiums from her mom, which we took, and after an impatient half-hour, Claire complained she wasn't feeling anything and insisted we smoke. We went to her bathroom. She lit a vanilla candle. I showed her how to smoke from the pipe, we passed it back and forth for awhile, and she again complained that she couldn't feel anything. I started to feel embarrassed. I'd let the poisonous Claire Miller down.

Then, of course, everything came crashing down. We were stoned so fast and hard it was too late to rethink this thing. Reality was out of reach and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

There is now a messy puddle of Claire in my lap and I feel like the whole world is spinning. Time is overlapping, we keep going in circles, the ceiling keeps changing its height. She's shaking, she's moaning, she keeps telling me to call 911 or wake up her mom. Part of me really wants to do what she says, but I just have to keep reminding myself that we're not dying, only stoned. I kind of wish it were the former, though.

"We can't stay in here like this, man," I tell her decisively.

"No no no no we HAVE to stay in here," she whispers. She starts laughing. "My mom's going to kill me if she finds out. Holy fuck, Gordo, I'm going to get kicked out of cheerleading..."

"I know, and that would really be a tragedy, wouldn't it." I try to push Claire to her feet. She's heavier than she looks.

"No, please don't. I'm so scared. Don't let me fall asleep, okay? Maybe we should wake up my mom..."

"Claire, listen to me." I hold her close, pressing my lips right against her ear and whispering softly but firmly. I'd never known she smelled so good. "I know you're scared. You're just not used to feeling this way. Physiology is actually a pretty logical science. This is science telling you you've put something bad in your body."

Her coffee-colored eyes grow wide with fear as she looks up at me. "Did I put something bad into my body?"

"Technically? Yes. But it's not as bad as you think, and you're not going to die, I promise you. Just keep reminding yourself that it's the drugs, okay? I'm scared too but you've got to stay with me. You feel different and your body's freaking out, but you just need to tell it it's going to be okay. Accept that everything's fucked up, just accept it. Mind over matter."

She touches her face. "Fuck, I can't feel anything."

I sigh. We're not getting anywhere. This is what I get for trying to make friends with a cheerleader. And I am so fucking hungry I can barely think straight. "Come on, Claire, get off your fat-ass. We're going to make some Easy Mac and watch TV. That'll calm you down."

She frowns as we stand up and stumble out of the bathroom. "Do you really think I have a fat ass?"

"No. But you're about to have a fat lip if you don't tell me where your effing kitchen is."

She laughs. I laugh. We laugh hysterically as we enter her kitchen and dig through the cabinets because, gosh, we're just so freaking hilarious. Her laugh is the most frightening and beautiful thing I've ever heard. It's the kind of laugh that makes babies cry, makes countries go to war, makes you think you're the stupidest person in the world.

Our laughter doesn't hold out for too long, though. I leave her on the couch eating Easy Mac while I dig through her DVDs and she starts freaking out again.

"Gordo, I still can't feel my face," she whines. "I want this to be over already. I can't take it any more."

I choose not to reply, because I am so sick of her nagging I think I just might puke myself. I smile as I stumble across _Aladdin._ After putting it in the DVD player (which turns out to be a real bitch to do, since the player keeps moving around), I bounce over to Claire and curl up next to her.

"Make this go away," she says.

"Okay," I answer. "Just shut up, eat your Easy Mac, and watch the movie."

For the first time, and probably the only time, Claire Miller does exactly what I say. She lays her soft head of hair on my chest and laughs at parts of the movie that aren't even funny. I run my fingers down the smooth skin of her arms and place occasional kisses on her neck and face. I know I'll probably never be allowed to touch Claire like this again. I have to take it while I can.

I'm not a complete idiot, you know. I like to think that all things in life provide an opportunity for educating oneself. In this case, I learned that pain killers + pot bad FUCKING idea. I have also learned my way around Claire's kitchen to a satisfactory level. But do I know the answers to Claire's questions? Probably not.

Why the fuck did I do this? Ego, perhaps. Jealousy. Maybe even a little bit of a crush. Do I have any idea who she is? Maybe, a little. I know what her bathroom looks like. I know she's a little bit smarter than she lets on. I know she can quote Aladdin even when stoned senseless.

You could almost say that Claire herself is not unlike a drug. She makes me hurt. She makes me hungry. She makes me question reality. She makes me say stupid shit I would never say under normal circumstances. She makes the world stop making sense. When I'm around her I just have to accept that things are fucked up; mind over matter. And no matter how bad she fucks me up, I know I'm always going to want more.


End file.
